


we happy few

by wildcard_47



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Gen, Gossipy Captains o' the Foretop and the Gossipy Stewards Who Love Them, Hurt/Comfort, In This House We Ship Hamlet and Horatio, M/M, Mild Voyeurism, Peglar Ships It, Seriously A Lot of Shakespeare References, Shakespeare References, The Boyfriends Who Read Hamlet Together Stay Together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 02:14:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21590008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildcard_47/pseuds/wildcard_47
Summary: While fetching some rope for the sledges, Peglar glimpses his Captains amid a tender moment.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames, John Bridgens/Harry Peglar
Comments: 16
Kudos: 139





	we happy few

Pausing just before the door to  _ Terror’s _ orlop, Peglar put a hand to the tilted frame, letting himself rest on his feet for the first time in weeks. Between getting through Carnivale and preparing to walk out all on reduced rations, he felt as if he could sleep for a hundred years. Not to mention trying to snatch precious time with John wherever they could.

But first he had to fetch more rope to secure the canvases over the sledges.

Standing up, and making his way toward that part of the orlop on little more than muscle memory, it was only the smallest flash of gold in the dark that made him stop and take a proper look at that particular corner. And then he heard the voices, low and urgent:

“You can’t  _ ask that  _ of them, James! For Christ’s sake, use your bloody head—”

“Why not? We will ask it in a fortnight at the very least. And it will only be more difficult to leave such things behind after sledging the boats to camp—”

“Didn’t I just say that? Listen, damn you!”

“Francis, I  _ am _ .” Captain Fitzjames’s tone was as soft as Peglar had ever heard it. He had a hand on the  _ Terror  _ Captain’s arm. “You’re arguing out of love for them, I know you are, but it doesn’t change the fact that—”

“I’ll not have them give up their lives before they fall out of harness!” 

Fitzjames was silent, but Crozier’s voice was shaking. Crozier had averted his gaze. Crozier was...crying? Good God, was that what that choked noise was?

“Francis.” Stunned, Peglar watched as Captain Fitzjames stepped forward and clasped Captain Crozier’s shoulders, drawing the gruff Irishman into his arms as easily as pulling down an obstinate piece of sailcloth. “Oh, Francis, no. I should never have been such an ass. Had I known that you—”

“Don’t,” growled Crozier. But he clutched at Fitzjames’s epaulettes all the same, and buried his face in Fitzjames’ collar, and clung to the man with even greater feeling when Fitzjames began to pet his shoulders and the back of his neck with one hand.

Peglar was struck by a great rush of sympathy as he watched his Captains take comfort in each other. In all their time here, he had not truly considered how difficult things must have been for Captain Crozier, after they lost Sir John, and when the creature’s attacks got worse. He must have suffered in silence for a long time. Perhaps that was why he had sought refuge in the bottle, and why he’d forced himself out of it now.

“Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,” Fitzjames was murmuring to Crozier in a soothing voice, his steady tenor carrying across the orlop, “and say, ‘these wounds I had on Crispin’s Day.’ Old men forget, and all shall be forgot; but he'll remember with advantages what feats he did that day: then shall our names.” As Crozier raised his head to stare at Fitzjames from beneath his flat cap, Fitzjames pressed a black-gloved hand to his weathered cheek. “Wiser men than the Bard agree. Frozen ships make good shelters, but they are not our homes. Our men are not trinkets and tokens. They are more than that. _We_ are more than that.”

“James,” whispered Crozier, grasping for Fitzjames’s wrist.

“If you believe in nothing else,” and here Fitzjames faltered, “well, I do hope you believe me. I hope it very much, because I could not bear your bad opinion now. You are my brother-in-arms, Francis; not a single person in the Navy loves his men any better. Not Sir John, not God, not even Henry Bolingbroke. Good Christ...”

Peglar missed the next few words, but they must have been rousing, because Captain Crozier made a wet noise, and sighed, and rasped a soft, “James,” before falling silent again.

Oh, it was properly tender, the way the Captain said Fitzjames’s Christian name. 

But now they had stopped speaking, and all was quiet. Peglar’s heart sped up the longer the two Captains stared at each other, unmoving, and he had to avert his eyes to the deck. He was fairly certain if he saw Fitzjames press a gentle kiss to Crozier’s pocked cheek or to his jagged half-moon mouth that he’d be blinded like Saul on the road to Damascus, having locked gazes with the divine.

“Thank you,” murmured Crozier, after a rather long silence.

“Well. Quite all right.” Fitzjames shuffled on his feet, cleared his throat. “I did mean it, you know.”

“So I gathered.” Captain Crozier tried for humour. “You knew there was sore need for a rousing speech.” He paused, sighed again. “Sometimes I think you know me better than I know myself.”

“Doubtful,” answered Captain Fitzjames after a moment; Peglar risked a look back and saw him straightening up, lowering his gloved hand to Crozier’s shoulder. A smile could be heard in his voice. “Though I admit I’ve some practice at fixing your expressions, after all these years.”

“Sodding Christ. Far better to do your damned job and fix the ship’s position.”

Fitzjames laughed, although it was not as spirited as usual. “Well. You know what the Bard might say about that.  _ Doubt thou the stars are fire. Doubt that the sun doth move. Doubt Tuunbaq is a liar,  _ et cetera, et cetera.”

“No Netsilik words in Henry the fifth.” Captain Crozier smiled at Fitzjames all the same; Peglar could see how his weathered face had turned soft and kind in the low light, even pleased. “But if the Bard’s got opinions on the thrice-damned Arctic circle, he can bloody well bin them and keep the lot to himself.”

“Wasn’t that also your verdict on my Shangkiang story?”

The sudden bark of laughter that burst from Crozier’s mouth was enough to disguise Peglar’s footsteps out of the hold and back to the ladder. Once here, he scurried up a couple of rungs, nearly to the top, then leapt off and jumped back down to the bottom, so his boots hit the frozen planks with a loud  _ thunk! _

Humming loudly, he proceeded forward into the storage hold; Captain Crozier was still laughing, but quieter, now. Still, Peglar made a great show of raising his lantern and peering through the dim light of the hold. “Who’s that back there? Oh, Captain Crozier. Captain Fitzjames. Afternoon, sirs.”

“Ah, Peglar. Hello.”

“Just fetching a bit more rope for the sledges.” Peglar gathered up a few lengths and looped them over his shoulder, like he was in a great hurry. “Don’t mind me.”

“No, no,” said Fitzjames; the two Captains were already headed toward the ladder. “Proceed as needed, Peglar. We were just adjourning to the flagship.”

“Of course, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Crozier gave him a nod as he passed, and clapped a brusque hand to his free shoulder; Peglar pretended not to notice that the man’s eyes and cheeks were still flushed red beneath his cap, or that Captain Fitzjames kept reaching out toward Crozier as they walked away, as if to steady him from a fall. By the time Peglar gathered up his length of rope, walked it back down to Des Voeux and the mates, and returned to  _ Erebus  _ to take up his watch _ ,  _ he had fully resolved to put the matter out of his mind.

This lasted all of twenty minutes, or at least until he yelped out “Hamlet!” in the middle of the quarterdeck, startling Hartnell and a couple of the others from their monotonous pacing.

“What is it, Peglar?” grumbled Hodgson, rubbing at his fingers.

“Er. Nothing, sir. Sorry, sir. I was just thinking of this passage from Hamlet. Where he’s said to have written all those pretty letters to Ophelia?  _ Doubt thou the stars are fire, doubt that the sun doth move, doubt truth to be a liar, but never doubt I love. _ ”

Hodgson blinked at him, eyes narrowing in puzzlement, and adjusted his Welsh wig. “Think that’s  _ Midsummer Night’s Dream _ .”

It wasn’t. Peglar was certain. “Are—I don’t believe it is, sir.”

“‘Tis. Coming off the bit about Pyramus and Thisby. I remember like it was yesterday. My schoolmaster had me play the clavier in lieu of the flute parts, for we had no flautists among the graduating class. It was an evening recital stroke reading, held in our honour.” A heavy sigh; Peglar already knew what would follow. “Need to take proper care of my fingers, you know. A musician needs every one in order to play.”

Too bad Master Blanky wasn’t here to tell him to shut up about his damn clavier. 

Sighing, Peglar went back to mulling over the verse in his head, now making the shapes of the words with his fingers the same way he had when he had first learned to write his letters. Way John had taught him on the  _ Gannett,  _ all those years ago. They had used  _ Hamlet  _ as a practice text so many times he could still recite some of the passages in his sleep, and had, if John’s gentle teasing was to be believed.

_ O dear Ophelia, I am ill at these numbers. I have not art to reckon my groans, but that I love thee best, most best, believe it. Adieu. _

It was an hour till they were relieved by the middle watch, but an hour well spent in Peglar’s mind, as no bear-beast had come to strike the ship and he had also reckoned the best possible way to tell this story to John, without alerting half the wardroom to its players.

He found John cleaning coffee cups in  _ Erebus’s _ wardroom, and waved a pleased hello when he noticed they were alone for a moment.

“Mister Peglar.” John smiled at him; two telltale dimples dotted his face above his beard. “How was your watch?”

“All right, really. Bit windy today.” Peglar moved to the sideboard, tried not to seem too eager as he lowered his voice. “But when the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw.”

He pursed his lips in a secretive smile, hoping John should understand his meaning.

John paused with his hand over a dirty coffee cup, and cast him a mischievous look before resuming his duties. “When Roscius was an actor in Rome, I take it?”

“Course. Or just after, I s’pose. The actors were practicing just now in next door’s hold. Gave a rousing speech.”

“Would this be the sort of speech that was only once acted out, and never pleased a crowd?”

“Too right.” Peglar grinned; John slid him a biscuit across the sideboard counter before moving down the line to polish the silverware. “Possibly never even acted before, I reckon. ‘Cos Hamlet kept giving the players all the stage directions. Do you remember?”

“Aye. The Prince of Denmark is delicate and tender, and lets discretion be his tutor,” said John, checking the bowl of a spoon for any water spots, then placing it with the clean cutlery. His eyes flicked toward the Great Cabin before returning to his task. “But is perhaps prone to excess. Or dramatic melancholy.”

“Even with his good friend Horatio.”

John’s eyes widened slightly behind his reading glasses; he cleared his throat to disguise the shock in his face, still polishing forks with his soft cloth. “Well, Horatio is his  _ dearest _ friend. A poor yet wise man that Fortune’s buffets and rewards hast ta’en with equal taste. Would that we all might possess such a kindred spirit in times of trial.”

“Yeah, but Hamlet says more than that, doesn’t he? When he talks to Horatio?”

“Act three, scene two, yes. Give me that man that is not passion’s slave and I will put him in my heart’s core, ay, in my heart of heart, as I do thee.” John stopped his polishing, and looked up. “Hamlet said that to him directly.”

It was a question, not a statement.

“Well, not directly, mind. He used different words of love in his earlier letters, didn’t he? Like when he wrote to Ophelia.”

“Act two, scene two.  _ That _ letter?”

“Very same.” Peglar crunched down on his biscuit with a happy noise. “One that Polonius read to the king and queen, innit.”

“With the ill phrase.”

“Yeah, exactly. Quoted the closing of that one directly, mind. Straight to Horatio’s face.”

“Ah.” John made a pained noise, shook his head. “Well, that’s…an interesting choice.”

“Horatio didn’t really know what to say in return,” added Peglar. “Thought it flattery, although it was not, and Hamlet told him so.  _ And  _ he left out the most important bit!  _ Never doubt I love.  _ Left it right out!”

“What happened directly after?” Footsteps echoed down the orlop; John glanced toward the door. “Interrupted, were they?”

“Yeah. Loudly. Then of course, no more talking. I said hello, got my length of rope, and walked right back out.”

John made a thoughtful sound as the door opened, and Hoar walked in, balancing a tray of clean cups in his hands. He raised an eyebrow at Peglar in silent understanding before speaking again. “Daresay all the players got more from Hamlet than they bargained for in many respects. Hamlet rather refused to let them be, if you remember. Always chiding them.  _ Speak the lines— _ ”

“ _ —trippingly on th’ tongue, _ yeah. Can you imagine, though? Bein’ ready to say all that, standing in front of Horatio, complimenting each other, talking about what proper friends they are, and then just  _ not _ giving the rest of the speech? I mean, Hamlet’s a prince of Denmark, yeah? He’s got courage in spades! Not some idiot gravedigger who can’t—”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Hoar groaned from his seat at the table, amid polishing the wet glasses into as much of a sheen as they could manage. “Can you two idiots stop blathering on about bloody books for once?”

Wordlessly, John met Henry’s eyes; the corners of his mouth lifted into a smile. Henry knew that look. It was egging him on proper, that was.  _ You gonna tell him, or should I? _

“Well, it’s not really books, Mister Hoar,” Peglar answered, lofty as you please, “it’s  _ Shakespeare. _ ”

“And I don’t care about it either bloody way!”

John bit his lip to hide a laugh. “Now, now, Edmund. Never fear. Peglar and I shall have to discuss what we’ve been reading some other time.” He gave Peglar a rather cheeky wink before passing him a hot cup of coffee. “Though you may as well have this before you return to Wall. He’ll be out of anything hot now the watch is over.”

“Very kind of you, Mister Bridgens,” chirped Peglar, and gladly cupped both hands around the mug. It was still warm, like the pleased feeling in his chest that radiated all the way down his arms and legs. “See you later.”

**Author's Note:**

> Someone requested a voyeurism fic in my Tumblr DMs several weeks ago.....this is probably not what they were expecting. Hope you don't mind getting something cute instead!
> 
> Those of you who haven't read Hamlet in a while might like the text of [Act 2, Scene 2](https://www.sparknotes.com/nofear/shakespeare/hamlet/page_94/) or [Act 3, Scene 2](https://www.sparknotes.com/nofear/shakespeare/hamlet/page_150/) for full context. It's no fear Shakespeare, so anyone can hack it!
> 
> Also, James's speech to Francis is taken from Henry V and [the famous "Crispin's Day" monologue](http://shakespeare.mit.edu/henryv/henryv.4.3.html).


End file.
